‘Do not linger in the throes of death,’ said Barnaby Gill, waspishly. ‘You took so long to expire in Antonio’s Revenge that we could have played the entire piece through again before you hit the ground.’
Firethorn stood on his dignity. ‘I am famed for my death scenes.’
‘Only because they outlast anyone else’s.’
‘Be silent, Barnaby. Curb your jealousy of a superior actor.’
Gill smirked. ‘I’ve yet to meet one — alive or dead.’
‘I bestride the boards like a giant.’
‘That explains why you lumber so and get in everyone’s way.’
Nicholas clapped his hands to interrupt them before another row was sparked. Barnaby Gill was the established clown in the company, second only to Firethorn in terms of talent and able to control an audience with equal skill. Though they worked together superbly on stage, the two men were sworn enemies once they stepped off it, forever indulging in verbal duels as each tried to seize the advantage. Edmund Hoode was the usual peacemaker between them but he was not even aware of their heated exchange this time. It was the book holder who turned their minds to the rehearsal.
The scene began with the entry of the conspirators. Brutus and Cassius instructed the others and reminded them of the magnitude of Caesar’s faults. Their manner changed when the remaining members of the Senate came in, and they gave no hint of their murderous intent. Mark Anthony had a brief conversation with Casca, and Nicholas was pleased with the way that Hoode declaimed his lines. He appeared to have shaken off his earlier problems and spoke with confidence. Wearing a toga over his doublet and hose, Julius Caesar then entered like a conquering hero, treating the senators with weary condescension as they tried to press him with individual petitions.
Even in rehearsal, Firethorn was supreme, moving with imperious strides, using peremptory gestures to keep the senators in their place and investing his voice with an authority that reverberated around the inn yard. While the arrogant Caesar praised himself extravagantly for having done so much for Rome, the conspirators moved into position. One moment, Firethorn was the head of a vast empire, the next, he was the victim of a brutal attack as no less than eight senators produced daggers from their robes in order to stab him. Casca was the first to strike, then, in quick succession, came the flashing blades of Cassius, Trebonius, Decius Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cinna, Caius Ligarius and, finally — to Caesar’s utter dismay — the trusted Brutus. As the conspirators drew back to allow Firethorn to play his death scene, however, they revealed that one body had already fallen to the floor.
In the hurly-burly of the assassination, Casca had collapsed. Edmund Hoode was no longer playing a part. Sensing that he was seriously ill, most of the actors abandoned their roles to crowd around the prone figure and Julius Caesar became aware that the agonising death he was undergoing with such ear-splitting groans had no audience at all. Instead, everyone was looking at Hoode. Enraged that his thunder had been stolen, Firethorn tore off his toga, flung it to the floor, and turned to confront the other actors.
‘God’s tits!’ he howled. ‘This tragedy is called Caesar’s Fall and not The Death of Casca. Remember, if you will, that I have the title role here and I’ll not be eclipsed by anyone else in the play.’ He glared at the Roman senators. ‘Which one of you blind and brainless idiots stabbed the wrong man?’
But nobody was listening. They were too alarmed by Hoode’s sudden collapse. Nicholas dashed across the stage and knelt beside his friend, easing him gently on to his back and placing a hand on his fevered brow. Hoode was completely unconscious. His breathing was uneven and there was a strange smell on his breath. Michael Grammaticus clambered on to the stage. His face was a study in apprehension.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Is he unwell?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, solemnly. ‘He needs a doctor.’
‘I’ll fetch one with all haste.’
Grammaticus rushed off at once and left them to make Hoode as comfortable as they could. Fury now spent, Firethorn was as sympathetic as anyone, bending solicitously over his friend and imploring him to say something. Edmund Hoode, however, was beyond the reach of words. Retrieving the discarded toga, Nicholas rolled it up to make a cushion for the patient’s head, then urged everyone to stand back in order to give him plenty of air.
The rehearsal was over.
Alexander Marwood was trapped. The landlord of the Queen’s Head had long ago discovered that he was in the wrong occupation and the wrong marriage. Small, skinny, ugly, misshapen and balding dramatically, he had the face of a diseased ferret, but it was his nature that was unsuited to life in a boisterous tavern. He abhorred crowds and despised drunkenness yet he was at the mercy of both on a daily basis. If he had been happy in his private life, he might have borne it with resignation but he was locked in a joyless union with his wife, Sybil, a stone-faced harridan who was skilled in the black arts of marital persecution. Marwood’s soul had shrivelled inside him.
‘I should never have taken this hellish place on,’ he confessed.
‘But it’s a fine inn, Alexander, with a good reputation and regular custom.’
‘I always wanted a quiet life.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Adam Crowmere with a chuckle, ‘you should not have come near London if you sought tranquillity. Here’s life, here’s bustle, here’s the biggest and most exciting city in the whole of Europe. Would you really choose to waste away in some dull country backwater? Come, Alexander, tell the truth. Being here in the capital has many consolations. Think how blessed you have been in your chosen bride, for instance. Sybil must bring great comfort to you.’
Squirming inwardly at the mention of his wife, Marwood did not trust himself to reply but his face was eloquent. Three separate nervous twitches broke out to animate his features, each moving rapidly and indiscriminately from nose to cheek, from chin to ear, from eyebrow to forehead, from lip to lip, until all three coalesced on his pate and made it ripple. Marwood smacked his head with an irritable hand but it only made the waves roll more swiftly across his skull.
‘I’ll wager this,’ said Crowmere, patting him familiarly on the back. ‘You and Sybil will miss the Queen’s Head. No sooner will you reach Dunstable than you’ll wish that you were back here again.’
‘I doubt that,’ replied Marwood, testily. ‘I’ll be too busy breathing fresh air again and enjoying a life where I am not at the beck and call of every fool, knave and drunkard who walks through my door. Be warned, Adam. The Queen’s Head is no Garden of Eden. The sweepings of London come into this tavern.’
‘As long as they can pay for their ale, they’ll be more than welcome.’
Crowmere was a fleshy man of medium height with a geniality that shone out like a beacon. Still in his thirties, he was an experienced innkeeper with a knack of increasing the profits in every establishment that he managed. Given the opportunity, he had been more than ready to desert his own tavern in Rochester for a short while in order to take charge of the Queen’s Head. Adam Crowmere felt that he would be in his element. The two men were standing in a private room at the inn while they discussed the terms of their agreement. Marwood could not believe that anyone would undertake the task with such patent enthusiasm.
There was a tap on the door. The landlord opened it to admit Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Ah,’ said Marwood. ‘Come in, sir. Your name was on my lips even now.’
‘Master Firethorn has sent me to pay the rent,’ explained Nicholas, handing over a purse. ‘I would have come earlier but one of our fellows was taken sick and we had to carry him back to his lodging.’